


For the Living

by Liara_90



Category: RWBY
Genre: Agender Character, Agender Ozpin, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Third Person, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Volume 3 (RWBY), Smut, Some Plot, Wakes & Funerals, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 03:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12762072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: General Ironwood runs into Professor Ozpin at the funeral of an old friend. Memories and circumstance bring them back together, for a moment.





	For the Living

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically inspired by [the collected _RWBY_ writings of AniPendragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AniPendragon/works?fandom_id=767851), which I strongly encourage you, dear reader, to check out. Worth your time.

Ironwood idly wondered if he’d been to more funerals than marriages.

He _must_ have attended more funerals, he was pretty sure, though there was no way for him to do the math. As an officer in the Atlesian Army he was authorized to officiate marriages, which meant he’d gotten to participate in a fair share of his subordinates’ ceremonies. That was a pleasant perk of the job he’d discovered, an official task he’d never thought he’d have enjoyed. But those temple bells tolled just as often for funerals as they did for matrimony, and he’d sent far more men to an early grave than to marital bliss. That was inevitable, given his job and its duties, but phrasing it in such stark terms saddened him somewhat.

Before him, standing at a small podium, a portly old man was delivering a sermon and a eulogy, tripping over the words of both. The elderly gentleman was not a particularly adept speaker: he fumbled over words, he rambled, he inhaled sharply before each sentence - a sound that was amplified by the microphone. Ironwood sat stoically through it all. For not every funeral could be a stately procession, a stage-managed feet of choreography, flawless in its execution. Family affairs rarely went smoothly, least of all in death, but a lack of polish made the words being spoken no less earnest.

* * *

James Ironwood grouped the funerals he’d attended over the generations into three epochs.

 ** _The first_** had been when he was but a child, a young Jimmy living out beyond the walls of the grand cities. Many children, he’d been told, could recall a sickening moment when they first fully conceptualized their own mortality, when they realized the reality of death in all its stark horror. Ironwood had no such memory. Death had been with him since before his earliest thoughts. His father was but a phantom in a faded photograph; all he remembered of his mother were fragmentary lullabies and half-forgotten fairy tales. In his little village in the woods, death had been a constant, the funerals like clockwork. Sometimes it was the Grimm, yes, but just as often it was illness brought on by malnourishment, the infirm and the elderly and the infantile shivering away in those unforgiving winter nights.

He had left that village shortly after turning ten, moving to the outskirts of a small city closer to the capital. Death had never entirely left his life, but it presence receded into erraticism. Those had not been _happy_ years, not by any sane man’s definition, but nor were they years of unrelenting darkness...

The portly speaker ended his eulogy, leaving only one mourner left to make remarks. The deceased’s son, Ironwood recalled, a somber-looking man of thirty, short blonde hair and a Huntsmen’s build. Father and son had had some falling out a few years ago, the General distantly remembered. He wondered if they’d patched things up in the end... 

**_The second_** epoch had come in his twenties, shortly after his service to the Realm had begun in earnest. _Those_ funerals had been for the brash deaths of young soldiers, for men and women still assured of their own immortality. Those had been violent years, bloody years, but so entirely different from his childhood. Ironwood grieved every fallen comrade, every classmate and roommate cut down by an unseen Grimm or killed in a crashing airship. But the bond between soldiers was strong, and every death was greeted with stiff drinks and rousing chants in the beer halls and the barracks. _Proudly_ did those warriors go into the Afterlife, or so Ironwood had eulogized, always to a rowdy chorus of cheers. He’d drain a tumbler of scotch in a swallow, the fire in his throat reminding him that he was still alive.

Gradually, mercifully, the funerals had tapered off - at least, the ones which he was expected to attend. The men he’d trained with retired to quieter careers, waylaid by injuries or families or the siren song of higher salaries. Those who remained were promoted in due time, moved to more bureaucratic postings where they risked less life and limb. Those had been quieter years - at least for the funerary bells - those decades in which Ironwood had ascended through the ranks and echelons of Atlas to his present lofty peak.

 ** _The third_** epoch of funerals, the one in which he was currently living, lacked the cruel randomness of those deaths in his childhood, as well as the noble purpose of those in his youth. Now the men he saw buried were dying of heart failure and cancer, or killed on a fishing boat by a Faunus terrorist with a bomb. These deaths did not pain him as his childhood losses had, nor did they have the acute shock of a soldier cut down on the field. These losses felt more like a growing absence in his chest, a whittling away, an emptiness.

* * *

The last of the speakers made their descent from the small stage, and the deceased’s daughter made a few concluding remarks, thanking those present for their attendance. Ironwood raised himself from his seat with a small sigh, his ass having long fallen asleep. The attendees began dispersing in the disorganized matter of gaseous particles, the small hall rented for the event now abuzz with murmured conversations.

“Professor Ozpin,” Ironwood said, making his way through the dissipating crowd towards a figure clad in green. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

Ozpin smiled at that, a politely neutral expression. “It’s good to see you again, James,” Ozpin began, speaking softly. “My sympathies for your loss.”

Ironwood inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Than you. Though I’m afraid I didn’t get to see much of Aurelius these last few years.” He made an indistinct motion with his right hand, a gesture acknowledging their powerlessness over such things. “Though I didn’t realize you knew him, as well.”

“I met Aurelius many years ago,” Ozpin answered, in that same _sotto_ voice. “He actually came to Beacon, looking for work.”

“ _Really_?” A small, amused grin played across Ironwood’s face. “He managed to keep some secrets from me yet, the old rat.”

Ozpin smiled slightly. “He may not have intended to deceive you, James. It sounds strange, saying it aloud, but that was almost forty years ago.”

The grin vanished. “ _Yes_ ,” Ironwood said, in an indistinct agreement. “How the years slip away from us.”

The two headmasters made their way to a small refreshments table, where a waitress in a vest and tie stood ready to serve them drinks. Whoever was running Aurelius’ funeral certainly hadn’t skimped on the wet bar, Ironwood noted approvingly, knowing his old friend wouldn’t have had it any other way. Ironwood had himself a strong spirit, while Ozpin remained content with white wine.

“The ceremony seems to have gone well,” Ozpin remarked after a minute’s silence, surveying the crowd through their spectacles.

It was a strange statement, in some respects, to judge whether or not a funeral had been well-received. A younger Ironwood would have scoffed at Ozpin’s remarks, reiterated that what _mattered_ was the noble and honorable life Aurelius had lead.

Now, he just sipped his gin.

Funerals might be _about_ the dead, Ironwood had come to realize, but they were not _for_ them. _No_ , the dead had no need for all the pomp and circumstances, of _that_ he was pretty damn sure. That was strictly for the living. The speeches and the ceremonies, the furled flags and the three-volley salutes… those were for those who had to live with the loss. Rituals, as real as any religion, which made it just a little easier to say goodbye.

“Will you been staying in Atlas long?” Ironwood asked, swirling his glass. “Or returning to Beacon?”

“I have an airship tomorrow morning,” Ozpin explained in answer, finishing the last of the glass. “While Miss Goodwitch is more than capable of holding down the fortress, I’m afraid affairs at Beacon will soon require my attention.” Ironwood nodded in understanding, though he couldn’t quite keep a hint of disappointment from his face. “James?”

“ _Oz_?”

The nickname slipped out without forethought, eliciting an elevated eyebrow from Ozpin. “My apologies, I may have misread that,” Ozpin said, in a polite but inobsequious tone. “I assumed you were asking to determine whether I would have time for some activity. A dinner or what have you.” Ozpin’s right hand left their cane, palm turned up.

James chuckled a little. “No, not a dinner, Ozpin,” he clarified, though the thought was not entirely unappealing. “Can’t say I’d have objected to another round of drinks somewhere.”

“Nor would have Aurelius,” Ozpin appended, slyly.

“As soon as he got his own place,” Ironwood began, stepping into a memory, “he invited us all over for a housewarming party. It was just a flat in the military district, little more than a bachelor pad, but he was _determined_ to show it off.” Ironwood paused for a few long seconds. “I _still_ don’t remember what happened that night.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Ironwood was rubbing at his eye with his thumb, the white leather of his glove moistening with the touch. He forced out a snort at that. “I honestly don’t know if anyone else from that night is still alive. Tealsson’s not. Verdant died a few months ago. Maanlicht’s still MIA.” Ironwood shook his head. “I can’t even remember who else was there…”

Ozpin’s hand rested on James’ back, between his shoulders, broad and hunched. “Come, now,” Ozpin said, in an almost chiding tone. “I haven’t heard half of these stories, you know. And I’m sure there are some not fit for a funeral.”

Ironwood cleared his throat with a wet cough. “Very true,” he said, in agreement. “Please give me a minute.”

Ozpin watched, ever-patiently, as Ironwood made a quick circuit of the room, shaking hands and offering his farewells. Few had expected a man of his stature to attend such a pedestrian funeral, so his presence was not expected. He had never really met any of Aurelius’ family, and they were hardly of the mind to meet him now.

He’d already said his goodbyes to Aurelius. For James Ironwood, that was enough.

The two slipped out of the small chapel where the service had been held, in a bucolic neighborhood whose streets were now choked with parked cars. Ironwood lead the way to a small black vehicle a few blocks away, unlocking the doors with his Scroll for the both of them. He was entitled to an official car and a chauffeur, thanks to his rank, but he’d driven here alone in the hopes of making his attendance inoffensive. Grieving relatives were rarely in the mood to humor a phalanx of bodyguards and aides.

Ironwood seated himself in the driver’s seat, the Dust-powered engine _whirring_ smoothly to life as he keyed the ignition. Ozpin closed their door with a faint _grunt_ of effort, fingers strumming the engraved head of a cane resting between their knees.

“Taking us back to the Grounds, James?” Ozpin inquired, employing the abbreviated name of the Atlas Imperial Proving Grounds, the formal designation for the headquarters of the Kingdom’s army.

Ironwood shook his head. “A friend’s home. It’s closer. And more,” he coughed, “ _private_.”

“ _Hmmm_ ,” Ozpin let out a little _hum_ of bemusement. “Have you been building a secret lair _without_ me, James?” Ozpin teased, gently.

Ironwood snorted, gloved hands guiding the steering wheel with unthinking ease. “I doubt that the owner would describe her home that way.”

“ _Her_ home? My, my, James, this is becoming positively scandalous,” Ozpin continued, though their voice never rose above a playful lilt. 

Ironwood rolled his eyes and depressed the accelerator, steering them onto the lakeside boulevard that would get them from _here_ to _there_. He could have set it on autopilot, of course, but he was of the generation that had learned to drive before such technology had become ubiquitous, and now found it difficult to release control. Ozpin remained silent for the duration of the trip, apart from a few half-hummed notes that occasionally slipped past their lips.

“Well this rather charming,” Ozpin noted, descending from the vehicle at their destination. It was a somewhat generous description, though Ironwood was ill-inclined to argue. A mid-sized, mid-luxury condominium tower stood before them, utterly indistinguishable from the other five around it. That assessment held true as they made their way to the twenty-first floor, past an unattended concierge desk and through a hallway devoid of art or color. Ironwood found a door and tapped his Scroll against the lock, opening it with a _beep_.

Ironwood coughed again. “Try to wipe your shoes off,” he said, a little sheepishly. “The owner…”

“...has rather charming tastes,” Ozpin noted, slipping out of nondescript leather loafers as the door slammed shut behind them. They let their cane rest against the wall. “Forgive me, James, but I’m assuming the furnishings aren’t yours.”

“No,” James confirmed. “And you don’t need to insinuate that this is a love pad.”

“My apologies,” Ozpin’s head bowed. “I take it the lady of the house is out?”

Ironwood smiled a little. “She better be,” he stated. “Seeing as I sent her on a mission to Vacuo three days ago.”

“ _Ah_. Your favorite Specialist. I should have guessed,” Ozpin said, like a pupil who’d stumbled on an easy question. “Do you come here often?” Ozpin asked, as Ironwood made his way to a cabinet and swung the door open.

“ _No_ ,” he answered, rather forcefully, pulling out two scotch glasses as he did. “I am her emergency contact, though.” A bottle of scotch made its way to the kitchen top. “And _next of kin_ , according to her paperwork.”

Ozpin let out a vaguely mournful sigh, watching as Ironwood filled two glasses with amber liquid. “Such a needless tragedy.”

“The Schnees?” Ironwood asked, not quite following Ozpin’s train of thought. “You’ve known Jacques longer than I have, Oz. I’ll stand by my subordinate’s decision any day of the week.”

“I meant more broadly,” clarified Ozpin, inclining their head in thanks as James proffered a glass. They _clinked_. “The unnecessary hatred. The unforced losses.”

Ironwood sipped his drink, exhaling pleasurably at the taste, harsh and salving in equal measure. “Would you be referring to _us_ , Oz?”

“Once again, I intended those remarks to be universal,” Ozpin said, between sips. “Though the Schnees do not have a monopoly on loneliness, I will agree.” Another sip. “My compliments to Miss Schnee on her stock of spirits, I might add. This vintage, is it-”

“-Fourth Year of Amethyst, yes,” Ironwood interrupted, hastening to date the beverage.

“That was a good year for us,” Ozpin noted, eyes seeming to glitter above the lip of their glass.

“ _The best_.”

They drank in silence for several seconds, Ozpin against the wall, Ironwood leaning gently on the granite counter top.

“Do you ever think of those times?” Ozpin asked, somehow managing to sound completely disinterested in the answer.

Ironwood sighed, setting his glass down as he did. “ _Sometimes_ ,” he conceded. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it over a brown leather chair.

“We were young and reckless,” Ozpin continued, slightly out of sync with James.

“ _I_ was young and reckless,” James corrected, a little teasingly. “You were just reckless.”

Ozpin laughed softly, polishing off the last of the liquor. “Very few would call me that now.”

“ _Reckless_? Well, Oz, very few have known you as I have.” Ironwood closed the distance between them somewhat, shuffling with atypical awkwardness. “Do _you_ think about those months?”

Ozpin shrugged. “I generally find it preferable to focus on what still _can_ be done, rather than what _has_ or _might have_ been,” they explained, their glass joining Ironwood’s on the counter. “...but _yes_. More often than I probably should, but I do.”

“Is it worth creating a few more memories now?” Ironwood asked, shortening the distance between them to inches. “Or would that be needlessly painful?”

“ _Never_ , James,” Ozpin chided, a hand coming to a gentle rest on Ironwood’s arm. “We take our happiness where we can make it. Just because I do not own a cow does not mean I cannot enjoy a warm glass of milk in bed.”

Ironwood blinked.

Ozpin blinked.

“I realize that that proverb may be misconstrued, in certain contexts…”

Ozpin didn’t get to finish that sentence.

They were kissing too quickly to think, powerful arms and gentle lips. Soon the two were stumbling towards a bed, shedding clothes, with the hasty awkwardness of horny teenagers.

James tripped over the bed, falling onto his back, staring up at Ozpin’s nude torso. Age had been gentle with Ozpin, melting away the toned muscles of a Huntsman in their prime, but inflicting no further tax. Ironwood himself had done his best to stay in shape despite the accumulation of years, fighting a never-ending rearguard action against muscular atrophy and athletic decay. His cybernetics were, he had to admit, a bit of cheat in that regard.

“You’re rather spry for your age, Oz,” Ironwood teased, as his dress pants were tugged off of him. Ozpin ignored the jibe, necessitating escalation. “You know what they say, if it lasts more than four hours-”

“-Then you will be very sore indeed, James,” Ozpin injected, shutting James up and massively arousing him in the process. “Now tell me.” Ozpin undid the buckle on their belt, fly hanging open. “What do you miss _most_ in your memories of our time together?”

Ironwood groaned a little, feeling his erection straining against the tight fabric of his briefs. “ _Your penis_ ,” he answered (his vocabulary having matured slightly with age).

“What about it?” Ozpin asked, the outline of said penis visible as pants were slipped off.

“Oh, come….” Ironwood paused, feeling Ozpin’s hand gently stroking his shaft. “I miss... sucking you off.”

Ozpin smiled a little smugly, as if the answer had never been in doubt. “How _have_ we wasted these years…”

“Shut up,” Ironwood demanded. He leaned forward and grabbed the elastic of Ozpin’s undergarments, tugging them downwards. “Do you want a blowjob or not?”

“Well when you put it in such terms….” Ozpin teased…

...but conceded. They changed places after exchanging a few kisses, Ozpin stroking James’ dick while they swapped positions. Ozpin lay flat on the bed, head resting gently atop two lace-embroidered pillowcases. The erection between their legs was firm, quivering slightly as James’ hands played across bare thighs.

“When was the last time you had a mouth on your penis, Ozpin?” Ironwood asked, lowering himself so he was resting between Ozpin’s knees. He stroked the shaft gently for a few seconds, waiting for a response, but none was forthcoming. He decided not to press the issue, spotting a spot of precum, but put his tongue to more productive uses.

Ozpin dick filled his mouth, a warm and needy presence. ( _Yeah, he’d missed this_.)

His throat tightened as he pushed Ozpin’s member deeply inside his mouth, coating it with moisture. He’d used to be _much_ more accommodating, but while he could practise piloting and marksmanship to his heart’s content at the Academy, there were far fewer opportunity to keeps his oral skills up-to-par. Literally _nones_ of them.

He coughed a little, punishment for his over-ambition, sliding back and working the head for a bit longer. Ozpin had always remained infuriatingly mute during their lovemaking, like this was all meditative tranquility on the path to Enlightenment, but the throbbing of their cock didn’t lie.

The blowjob was fairly artless, at least in comparison to the fading memories in Ironwood’s mind. They had never been much for foreplay nor roleplay, the realities of their lives had been unaccommodating to elaborate fantasy. Ironwood still remembered what touches seemed to get a tenser reaction, though, his hands cupping Ozpin’s balls as he bobbed.

“How is it, so far?” Ironwood asked, removing his mouth for a few moments. One hand idly rested atop the tip of Ozpin’s member, thumbing it pleasurably.

“ _Wonderful_ , James,” Ozpin replied, gently but sincerely. James chuckled a little and resumed his ministrations, pushing himself to push deeper down. Ozpin let out a pleasurable groan as James’ lips sank lower, fingers and just a touch of teeth bringing the older Headmaster to the edge.

Ironwood leaned back, his hand pumping Ozpin’s head, seeing the minor trembles indicative of a looming earthquake. He pressed his lips to the tip at the last possible moment, feeling Ozpin’s fluids fill his mouth, salty and savory. He gulped, greedily, before licking the last of Ozpin’s cum clean off their member.

“You certainly haven’t lost your touch, James,” mused Ozpin, between heavy breaths, their eyes still closed. Ironwood said nothing, but felt something warm in that spot where his heart had been. “ _Now_.” Ozpin leaned forward, resting against the headboard to take in the man before them. “How can I return the favor?”

“If you wouldn’t mind…” Ironwood began, somewhere between sensuousness and sheepishness, “....just lie back down a bit.”

Ozpin raised an eyebrow but obeyed, sinking back into the pillows beneath them. Ironwood shuffled forward on his knees, straddling his fellow Headmaster. His penis protruded erectly from between his legs.

“It’s…”

“... _different_ ,” Ironwood confirmed, stroking the head with his hand. In the near-silence of the room, you could almost hear the faint _whirring_ of his cybernetic servo motors in motion. “The funny thing is,” he said dryly, “the sensory feedback _there_ is better than anywhere else in my body.”

Ozpin reached out to touch said shaft, stroking it gently. Ironwood stifled a gasp. “The wonders of modern technology.”

“One of the first things they got _right_ , once bionics wetware went commercial,” Ironwood confirmed. “More than a few of its components were designed for high-end sex toys.” He paused. “Hence why the tactile feedback is so much... _sharper_.”

Ozpin’s smile was amused. “Human ingenuity at its finest,” they said, a little sardonically. Though the fact that it _worked_ so seamlessly really _was_ impressive. “Would you like me to…”

“Just your hands,” James clarified, letting his own fall to his side. His member hung erect and unattended for several seconds, before Ozpin’s hand found its head. He closed his eyes and shuddered. “It feels even better than before, somehow.”

Ozpin chuckled and continued pumping. They were no stranger to the advancements of cybernetics, but seeing something close - _this close and in action_ \- was still a little fascinating. Even a discerning eye could spot no difference between synthetic and organic. Ozpin would never have known had they not been familiar with the original. Even the fluids were flawless.

Ozpin’s hands were gently brushed off, Ironwood’s fingers curling around his own shaft. That left the Valean with little to do, apart from gently massage James’ balls, cupping them the way he’d once liked. One finger slipped further, between buttcheeks, pushing against hyper-sensitive skin.

James shuddered and leaned forward a little, the tempo of his pumping seeming to accelerate with each second. With a final _tap_ from Ozpin’s finger he came, ejaculating over his friend’s chest with a stringy spurt.

James remained still for several seconds, before lowering himself atop Ozpin, his face finding the gap between head and neck. The scent of freshly-laundered fabrics filled his nose, while he felt Ozpin’s hand wrapping around his back, tracing idle lines along the length of his spine.

They shared the heat of their bodies for several wordless minutes.

“ _Hells_ , that was something I haven’t done… haven’t done in a damn long time,” Ironwood said with a sigh, rolling over so they were lying in parallel on the bed.

Ozpin _hummed_ in agreement. “It was quite the indulgence, I agree.”

Ironwood snorted and shook his head. Ozpin might play the ‘ _Wise and Ancient One_ ’ act better than most of them, but they still felt every human feeling there was. And Ozpin’s soul was _far_ too human to forego lust, any more than it could happiness or sorrow.

They made love for another hour or two, debauching the bed with decadent hedonism and erotic expressionism. Giving and receiving, generous and greedy. A million men would’ve lusted to know what was happening in that room in those minutes, but only two souls ever would.

When they were finally spent, body and mind, they both began dressing, finding the green garments and martial outerwear that had been cast in a vortex around the apartment. There was a bit of embarrassment to it, to the inexplicable _horniness_ of their lusting.

But it had been fun.

“I’m also afraid to ask,” began Ozpin, collecting their cane, “but when does the young Schnee return from her assignment?”

Ironwood rubbed his forehead. “Two days from now,” he said with a groan. He flashed his palms. “I… there’s a cleaning service I’m going to call as soon as I get back.”

“Well, then.” Ozpin stood still for several seconds, strumming the cane’s handle. “I trust that Miss Schnee will be understanding of any… _discrepancies_.”

Because never in a million years was Winter _not_ going to notice how strangely her bed had been re-made.

“Come on,” Ironwood said, gesturing his old friend out the door. “You said it’s best not to linger.”

Ozpin smiled. “Sometimes, but not _always_ , James. Memories are also strength, an emotional reserve in times of need.”

The door locked behind them with a faint _click_.

“And there will be many days of need ahead.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please feel free to leave a comment or a review with what _worked_ , what _didn't_ , or just anything that catches your eye. A quick sentence saying you enjoyed it fuels more than ten kudos could. Also feel free to hit me up on [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/) or [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/), where I'm always happy to chat _RWBY_. (I can't access my Discord account, please don't try to contact me there, though).
> 
> Another work which was a bit of an experiment for me. Writing these characters in a smutty setting was a bit of a hurdle, but I hope it worked. Was the characterization passable? The plot decent enough? As usual, I'm still not really happy with the smut of my smut fics. Ozpin was fun to write dialogue, for, a very easy voice to hear in my ear as I write.
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
